


Bleu comme une orange (blue like an orange)

by Clarounette



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-27
Updated: 2013-10-27
Packaged: 2017-12-30 15:20:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1020261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Clarounette/pseuds/Clarounette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Michael likes the fall in London, not too cold or too warm, sweater weather and crunchy leaves. Loves watching James enjoy the fall, too. Too bad he's stuck in sunny Los Angeles all alone. Or is he?"</p>
<p>Written for Shayzgirl's prompt for McFassy Autumn Extravaganza.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bleu comme une orange (blue like an orange)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



It was that time of the year again. The time for evenings in front of the fireplace and pumpkin-flavored everything. The sun played hide-and-seek with the clouds filling the sky. Rusty leaves danced in the wind, then lay on the ground at the end of their show, waiting to disappear in the muddy earth. During the day, sweaters often became too much to bear, when remnants of the summer warmed the air. But when night came, one would roll oneself in a thick blanket to keep the cold at bay.

In London, fall looked especially beautiful. The sad and dirty walls of the old buildings became alive when surrounded with gold and red and brown. Above the city, the dull silver of the cloudy sky had chased the fog away. Parks and gardens, like colorful jewels of semi-precious stones, lightened London with their vibrant hues.

Fall was lovely, and Michael dreamed of hot cocoa and dead-leave fights. He imagined them while walking along Hollywood Boulevard, sweating in his light green t-shirt and khaki shorts. Fall had covered London with an orange veil, but he wasn’t there to see it. He was in Los Angeles. Alone.

Michael protected his face with his right hand when a vicious sunray bounced on a glass building and burned his eyes. There would be no such thing in London right now. Michael loved the dim light of autumn days; it was cozy and appeasing. A calming balm.

  


The year before, Michael had spent most of the humid season – well, London was humid all year long, but still – with James, in their love nest. When night fell, they had cuddled up in front of the TV wrapped in a duvet, eating out-of-the-oven chocolate chipped cookies. In the afternoon, when a sly sun had somewhat warmed the atmosphere, they had sat in their small garden and watched the leaves die and fall, a pretty ballet of decaying dancers..

“You know, I should really rake them up. They’re going to rot soon,” Michael had said a couple of times. To which James had always answered “not yet” with a mysterious smile.

Of course, they had rotted, Michael had discovered one afternoon of late November, when he had walked on the spongy ground with a frown. “See, I was right.” But when he had turned to James, the man was smiling, eyes closed. “I love the smell.” It was earthy and full, spicy as well. Not Michael’s taste, but whatever: it was worth it, for James’ expression of contentment and pleasure.

  


Michael opened the door to his hotel room, and felt terribly lonely all at once. The tasteless design, the mostly empty closet, the dreadful silence… He wasn’t home and every piece of ugly furniture was reminding him of this fact.

He sat at the edge of the bed, defeated. He knew James was home. Without him. For two more weeks. They were going to be the most terrible weeks of his life. He wanted to be with the man he loved. His heart remained in London, and he was as good as dead.

Before he could stop himself, he opened his cellphone and dialed up James’ number – he knew it by heart, and that was much better than letting a heartless device remember it for him. James answered before the end of the second ring. “Michael? Something wrong?” Fear and doubt flooded through the phone. Of course : it was too early for their ritual daily call. Awfully early for James too, now that Michael thought of it. And yet, the background noise suggested the man was in the street.

“Nothing,” Michael finally answered, “I was just missing you. What are you doing outside at this hour?"

"Oh… No… Nothing special. I’m just craving for some fresh croissants for breakfast.” James sounded guilty. What was happening?

As much as it fitted James’ impetuous nature, something was fishy. As an afterthought, Michael realized that he wasn’t there to bring pstries to James, in their bed. It hurt.

“Oh… Okay.” Michael looked at Los Angeles’ sunny weather. “How are things in London?” he asked.

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“I mean…” Again, doubt and panic. Definitely fishy. “The same as usual. What do you want to know?”

“Forget it.” Michael didn’t want James to hear his fantasies of soup and sweaters. He knew it was ridiculous. Fall didn’t mean anything special to James. Only his own stupidity had dressed the awful season in pretty clothes – orange clothes.

James didn’t insist. “Look, I have to go. I’ll call you back later.”

“What?” But it was too late. “James?” he tried again. The line was dead.

What exactly had happened? Michael stared at this mute phone, wondering.

Someone knocked on his door.

“For fuck’s sake!” Michael grumbled, “Now is not the time.”

He didn’t move at first, but they kept knocking. The irritating sound was getting on his nerves.

Michael threw his phone on the bed and walked to the door. “What is it?”

No answer. Weird. And annoying. Michael wanted to get rid of the jerk who was messing with him. And if it earned say jerk a black eye, it would even make Michael’s day. Anything but that melancholy loneliness, please. He opened.

Blue eyes, cherry lips and a ridiculously thick orange sweater stood in front of him. James was here.

“You know, I don’t really mind staying in the hallway. But I’d like to get rid of that – “ he showed his orange nightmare “ – and I doubt you’d appreciate me being half-naked for all the hotel to see.”

He was deadly right, and without uttering a single word, Michael let him in.

No need to say that the sweater was quickly discarded, as well as much of their other clothes.

There was no pumpkin. The sky was a bright blue. Fireplaces were useless in Los Angeles’ heat. But James was here. He had brought the colors and the smells of London’s fall with him, and nothing else mattered.

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from a poem by Paul Eluard
> 
> La terre est bleue
> 
> La terre est bleue comme une orange  
> Jamais une erreur les mots ne mentent pas  
> Ils ne vous donnent plus à chanter  
> Au tour des baisers de s’entendre  
> Les fous et les amours  
> Elle sa bouche d’alliance  
> Tous les secrets tous les sourires  
> Et quels vêtements d’indulgence  
> À la croire toute nue.
> 
> Les guêpes fleurissent vert  
> L’aube se passe autour du cou  
> Un collier de fenêtres  
> Des ailes couvrent les feuilles  
> Tu as toutes les joies solaires  
> Tout le soleil sur la terre  
> Sur les chemins de ta beauté.
> 
> Paul Eluard, L’amour la poésie, 1929


End file.
